VII 



THE WOODCHUCK 



Chancing to pass a besmirched April 

 snowbank on the border of a hollow, you 

 see it marked with the footprints of an 

 old acquaintance of whom for months 

 you have not seen even so much as this. 



It is not that he made an autumnal 

 pilgrimage, slowly following the swift 

 birds and the retreating sun, that you 

 had no knowledge of him, but because of 

 his home-keeping, closer than a hermit's 

 seclusion. These few cautious steps, 

 venturing but half way from his door to 

 the tawny naked grass that is daily edg- 

 ing nearer to his threshold, are the first 

 he has taken abroad since the last bright 

 lingering leaf fluttered down in the In- 

 dian summer haze, or perhaps since the 

 leaves put on their first autumnal tints. 



He had seen all the best of the year, 

 the blooming of the first flowers, the 

 springing of the grass and its growth, 

 33 



